


Catastrophic

by therestlessbrook



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Frank gets Turned Into a Cat, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, literal fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23424697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therestlessbrook/pseuds/therestlessbrook
Summary: Frank Castle gets turned into a cat.
Relationships: Frank Castle/Karen Page
Comments: 24
Kudos: 171





	Catastrophic

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this.

How it happens isn’t important.

Okay, so it’s a little important. There’s a wizard involved. Frank Castle has to force himself to think the word ‘wizard’ a few times before it sticks. There’s some weird ass shit in the world, but wizards and magic are fucking weird and he did not sign up for this.

He signed up to kill the killers. To punish those who would hurt the innocent.

And it turns out the mafia really isn’t a fan of his. So they hire a hitter to go after him. There’s a knife involved and it flashes against Frank’s forearm. Blood wells up, spatters against the concrete. Then the wizard takes that blood and murmurs over the knife.

Which is how Frank finds himself hanging from the tips of his fingers from a very high ledge.

No, not his fingers.

No, his _claws._

Because here’s the part he can’t quite wrap his head around.

He’s a cat.

He’s got four goddamn legs, whiskers, and a tail. He’s something out of a cartoon his kids would have watched, except he’s also about to be stomped by a vindictive wizard who’s doing the mob’s dirty work. So Frank jumps and runs.

It’s instinctive, thank fuck. Otherwise, he’d probably just trip and fall on his face and what a way to die. As a cat.

Frank scurries through the empty warehouse, dodging bullets and blasts of magic, his tail low to the ground for balance as he skitters along a high ledge, then out a window. The fresh air smells like so much more now. He can pick out the scents of the river and car fumes, rotten garbage, human body odor, and gunfire. Delicately, Frank leaps from ledge to ledge until he’s on the pavement.

He makes a dash for a parked car and hides beneath it.

He’s not insane. He hopes. He’d rather be a cat than insane.

He looks at himself in the reflection of the car’s overly shiny rims. He’s rangy-looking cat with long fur and a particularly thick neck ruff. He’s black, with a white patch across his chest. There’s a scar notched through his left ear. Even as a magicked cat, he looks like someone ran him over with a car a few times. Not exactly the kind of animal that some loving family would like to adopt. He’d most likely be picked up by animal control and who knows what fate would happen to him after that.

He licks at the cut on his foreleg until it stops bleeding.

He has to find an ally. Someone who won’t just drop him off at a shelter.

He knows who it has to be.

* * *

It takes a whole day to cross the city.

There’s a lot of running, ducking under dumpsters and hiding behind cars. He scurries along sidewalks when no one is looking, his ears low and fur pressed tight. He’s anxious every time he’s in the open because he’s tiny and vulnerable and noises and sounds are fucking overwhelming in this physical form. He’s hungry but he doesn’t dare stop.

Finally, _finally,_ he turns down the right street. It’s dark out, but that doesn’t matter too much. One perk of being a cat is his night vision is excellent. He trots up the stairs of her fire escape, nimbly jumping up until he reaches the right window.

She’s in there. He sees blonde hair and her fingers moving across a laptop. She’s on her couch—he can just make out the shape through a slant of space between the curtains.

What’s he supposed to do? Knock?

Feeling somewhat resigned, Frank does the only thing he can think of. He yells.

Or rather, he yowls. A terribly plaintive noise emerges from his throat. It sounds like someone’s killing him, Jesus. No wonder some people can’t stand the sound of cats.

There’s the vibration of footsteps across a hardwood floor, then fingers at the window, pushing it open. Karen looks out, brows scrunched.

She sees him, and her face goes tight with surprise for a moment. He looks up at her. She looks at him.

“Hi,” she says slowly.

Frank tries to reply in kind. It comes out, “Mrow.”

“Did you get lost?” asks Karen. Her gaze slides over him, probably taking in the notched ear, his black and white fur, and the general manginess of him. He’s not exactly a prize show animal.

But he can’t let this opportunity pass. He leaps for the window. Karen steps back, startled, and Frank sails into her apartment and lands on his feet. It smells like her, like he remembers: clean floors and papers and the faint scent of something floral. Frank relaxes at once, sitting down and curling his tail around his paws. After a full day of running and hiding, just being somewhere quiet and safe is utter bliss.

Karen kneels beside him. “Hey.” She holds out a hand.

He should probably do something Frank-like. Spell out his name with a paw or tap his tail in morse code. But some instinct takes over and Frank headbutts her fingers. She scratches at his cheek and he closes his eyes.

“You’re a sweetie, aren’t you?” Karen murmurs. She reaches down and picks him up. He lets her, because he’s exhausted and she won’t hurt him. When she carries him to the bathroom, he doesn’t even mind. She puts him there, then closes the door quietly and vanishes for a few minutes. When she returns, it’s with a can of open tuna and a water bowl.

He eats the tuna with embarrassing enthusiasm. Drinks a good amount of water. Then he spends a good five minutes washing his face, which is an experience.

He stays there for about an hour. Then Karen returns. She smells of new things—the outdoors, maybe other people. “No neighbors say they lost you,” she murmurs, reaching down to pet him. He still finds himself leaning against her. He meows again, and to his embarrassment even his meows are a little rusty and hoarse.

“I’m not normally a cat person,” she says, when he looks up. “But I’ll admit, you’re pretty cute.”

Frank Castle is not cute. He wonders if maybe he should gut a mouse to prove it.

Maybe later.

She reaches over and begins running the bath. Oh. Maybe he should get out of here—it’s probably a violation of their friendship if he sees her naked when he’s a cat. He should—

Then she picks him up around the middle and carries him to the warm bathwater.

Oh.

Shit.

* * *

She bathes him.

Which is every bit as awkward as it sounds. Her hands are everywhere, scrubbing at his fur and trying to make sure he doesn’t have fleas.

Crusted blood flows into the water and Karen makes a startled sound, then begins searching all over to find the source. She discovers the cut along his foreleg and murmurs quiet apologies. She washes the cut with so much gentleness that he barely feels it. Then she is pulling him up and out of the tub, drying him with a clean towel. She finds some antibiotic cream and dabs it onto the wound before wrapping it with a cloth bandage. It looks funny and it means he has to walk a little awkwardly, but the leg feels better.

He grooms himself until he’s dry, and then Karen squats down in front of him and says, “How’d a pretty boy like you get all scratched up?” She ruffles the fur between his ears, touching the notched one. “Gotten into a few fights, haven’t you?”

He lets out a sigh and closes his eyes. It feels nice, being petted. Even if he’d rather die than admit such a thing.

“I’m not supposed to have any pets in here,” Karen murmurs. “But let’s just take this on a trial run, okay?”

He meows in reply. It comes out like a grinding engine.

It only makes her laugh. “You need a name. Rusty sound all right?”

It sounds good because it means she won’t kick him out. He has to figure out a way to tell her who he is, and then she’ll talk to… someone. He isn’t sure who. Murdock knows a lot of weird people. Maybe he’ll know a wizard. Someone has to know how to fix this.

That night, he stays out of her bedroom while she changes. He’s still trying to figure out a way to tell her what’s happened. He can’t hold a pen; he can’t talk; he could try to spill a container of flour and spell out his name in it. That’s an idea.

He goes to the kitchen. Looks up at the cupboards. Wonders how to get into them.

Karen walks out of her bedroom. She’s wearing—Jesus Christ. It’s a shirt. It’s not a long shirt either—it doesn’t cover her panties and he should definitely not be seeing this. He averts his gaze at once. “Come on,” Karen says, laughing. “You can’t be hungry again already.” She reaches down, picking him up and placing him against her shoulder. He lets her carry him into the living room, unsure of how to escape. “Tomorrow I’ll buy you a litter box,” she says. “Tonight, I filled up a cardboard box with some of the dirt from the neighbor’s garden.”

He will not be using that.

Some lines must remain uncrossed.

He ends up sleeping on her couch. It’s comfortable—more comfortable than his own bed in his shitty-ass apartment he’s renting. He sleeps fitfully, waking every so often and startling when he sees paws and a tail. He’ll never be used to this. Never.

* * *

In the morning, he eats half a can of tuna while Karen vanishes off to the store.

He has to find a way to communicate with her. Meows have charmed her enough so that she didn’t just dump him at a shelter, but he has to tell her the truth.

It’s time to begin Operation Get Frank Fucking Human Again.

Frank goes into the kitchen. The flour idea is the only one that seems plausible as a cat. He can pull over a bag, hopefully use a paw to spell out something intelligible. She has to know that he’s not a normal cat. Frank leaps atop the counter.

Actually, jumping as a cat is _fun._ He can reach some amazing heights, and he’s going to miss that when he’s human again.

He nimbly goes atop the fridge, then uses a paw to nudge open one of the top cupboards. He peers inside.

There’s a bottle of whisky. And a cobweb.

Okay, next cupboard. He goes to the other side of the fridge, pushing open the other cupboard with his nose. Inside are cups.

He jumps back down to the counter, then rises onto his back legs so he can pry open the lower cupboards. Inside one, he finds chocolate chips, a container of rice that might be expired, and a dead cockroach.

How the hell does she stay alive? There’s no food. No staples—no flour or sugar, no canned goods or even those shitty ‘just-add-water-and-get-pasta’ meals.

In the last cupboard, he finds a container of coffee. Maybe he can use that. He nudges at the container—one of those big Trader Joes bins of coffee that should last a family for about two weeks but usually only takes him a week to burn through. The plastic lid is difficult to manage without thumbs.

He pushes it over onto its side, then rolls it over the counter.

It crashes, coffee beans scattering across the floor.

All right. He can do this.

He begins nudging coffee beans so that they form letters.

F-R-A-N-K C-A-S-

Which is as far as he gets before Karen comes home and finds her new cat sitting amidst a pile of unground coffee beans. “Oh my god,” she says, dropping her groceries on the floor. She reaches down to scoop him up, and half of his painstakingly arranged letters go scattering along the hardwood floor. He makes an irritated noise, but she shushes him and carries him into the bedroom. “What kind of cat is into coffee?” she murmurs, setting him on the bed. Then she shuts him in.

He stands at the door, tail lashing in irritation, as she cleans up the spilled coffee.

She didn’t see the message.

He’ll have to try again. But with what? Her kitchen is a ghost town. 

Karen returns to the bedroom after half an hour. She checks his bandage, removing it carefully. Then he sees what she purchased: twin cat bowls, one for food and one for water. An actual litter box with clay litter. A cat bed, which she places in the corner of the living room near the window. And cans of wet cat food. He watches it squelch into one of the bowls.

Well. This is going to be an experience.

* * *

The next day, she takes him to the vet.

And has him _microchipped._

It could be worse. She could’ve cut his balls off, after all. But when the vet asks about fixing him, Karen explains that he’s going to be an indoor-only cat.

He isn’t fond of his new cat carrier. It’s small and very unsettling to be utterly entrapped within it. When he comes home, he hides behind the tv for a good half hour in protest.

Karen puts down a mouse toy. He looks at it with a certain amount of disdain.

He gets a collar. Black, at least. But the tag is heart-shaped and has his new name, “Rusty,” etched into the metal, along with Karen’s phone number. “Just in case you get lost,” she says, picking him up and carrying him into the bathroom. “Some people wouldn’t think to check if you’re chipped.”

Then she clips his claws—which he doesn’t like. He can’t defend himself like this. He growls quietly, which earns him a disapproving look, but he allows her to maneuver the clipper around each of his toes.

Then she picks him up again and carries him to the living room, to the couch.

She puts him in her lap. He should jump off, hide under the couch, or—

Her fingers slide into the soft fur around his neck and begin to scratch back and forth. Her thumb finds a sensitive place behind his notched ear and it feels amazing. At once, his whole body relaxes into her. She rubs his neck, then up to his head, around his jaw. It’s been years since anyone touched him so affectionately, and he’s almost forgotten how starved he is for it.

Then he starts _purring._

It’s weird. It’s instinctual. He doesn’t mean to do it. But a contented rumble starts up somewhere in his chest and he can’t seem to make it go away. It doesn’t help that Karen is still petting him and her lap is warm and soft. He finds himself falling into a contented doze.

“—Such a handsome boy, aren’t you?” Karen is murmuring. “You just needed some love.”

He probably shouldn’t enjoy this.

He does.

* * *

In the days that follow the break-in, Frank develops a routine.

6am: Wake up. Patrol apartment.

7am: Watch Karen make coffee. Eat kibble. Try to steal laps of coffee when she isn’t looking.

8am: Karen goes to work. She puts out an assortment of toys that alternate from day to day—apparently to keep him from getting bored in her absence. Sometimes it’s a butterfly attached to a string. Other times, balls with bells in them. And then there are toy mice.

9am: Use the litter box. (He will never, ever speak of this.)

10am: Nap.

11am: Nap.

Noon: Sit on windowsill, watch the city, and brood about how he can do nothing to affect it.

1pm: Grooming and eat some kibble.

2pm: Nap.

3pm. Watch the city and brood. Try to figure out a way to tell Karen who he is.

4pm: Nap.

5pm: Karen comes home. Walk around her feet to greet her. Sniff at her shoes because they have interesting smells. Watch her eat a dinner—usually take-out, so much takeout.

6pm: Be petted while Karen watches the news and/or reads.

7pm: Eat a can of wet cat food. Flavors include chicken or fish or beef or something that is supposed to have cheese in it but is certainly not cheese.

8pm: Pretend Karen isn’t scooping the contents of the litter box.

9pm: Listen to Karen get ready for bed. Patrol the apartment on last time. Sleep either on couch or in the bed beside the radiator.

Repeat as necessary.

* * *

Frank tries to tell Karen who he is.

He writes “FRANK” in the litter box. But it comes out wobbly and he’s pretty sure she doesn’t see it. He tries to type on her laptop—but it’s on her lap and she thinks he’s just walking across the keys, so she picks him up and scolds him while also kissing him on the nose. He goes for the coffee beans a second time, which makes her start putting the container in the fridge.

He considers other possibilities. He could try to find another wizard, but he has no idea where, and leaving the apartment is dangerous. He’s a cat. He’s small and vulnerable, which is probably the point. And the mafia-hired wizard might find him.

That idea makes his fur stand on end; he hates the thought that an evil wizard could be hunting him, tracking him, and come here. He knows that Karen would defend him in a heartbeat, but he doesn’t want that son of a bitch anywhere near her. He came here for safety, but not at the cost of Karen getting involved in this.

If the wizard does show up, Frank will try to lead him away. Or kill him. Which will be harder as a cat, but life is all about new challenges.

In the meantime, though, Frank learns all kinds of things about Karen’s life.

He learns that she likes her coffee black, that she eats a piece of fresh fruit in the morning because she doesn’t like making breakfast. She likes watching a few soapy shows. She paints her nails every color but red—taupes and browns, grays and deep greens. She wears short shirts to bed. Her legs are gorgeous.

One eventful evening, he sees her naked.

She isn’t a fan of evening showers, he’s come to find. But one time, she returns home smelling like the inside of a dumpster. She is muttering something about a lead gone wrong, then she vanishes into the bathroom. Frank is busy grooming his tail because it’s itchy and instinctual, and then before he knows it, Karen is walking out of the bathroom to get clean clothes. And she is utterly bare—only a towel wrapped around her hair.

Frank tries not to look. Thankfully it turns out that cats don’t have the best eyesight, so it’s mostly just a pale blur.

He also hears her mastrubate a few times—which sends him scurrying to the farthest reaches of the apartment because that is something he knows Karen would not want him listening in on. He ends up hiding in the kitchen, trying to focus on something else.

He supposes that he should be grateful that all of her sex has been solo so far—because the thought of having to listen to her with another man makes his stomach churn with something like anger. Which is stupid, he knows. He all but pushed her in Murdock’s direction; if she decided to take Frank’s advice, that’s her business.

Another thing he learns about Karen is that she doesn’t cook. She relies on a lot of snacks—fresh fruit and cheese and bread—or take-out. But as for actual food, she seems too busy to cook.

She doesn’t buy flour. She doesn’t purchase anything he can use to spell his name in. What she does buy is a toy banana stuffed with catnip.

She puts it down in front of him and he gives the toy a look. “Oh, come on,” Karen laughs. She shoves it toward him. It’s a stuffed banana. What does she expect him to do with it? Peel it?

He leans down and sniffs.

It smells like mint and—whoa.

Frank has never been a drug user. He’s smoked weed a few times in college and drank his fair share of beer, but never anything more serious.

But now—now he kind of gets it. His pupils are huge and his heartbeat is thumping and all he wants to do is shove his face in that banana and inhale. So he does.

And then the catnip _really hits him_. And he’s got the banana between his forelegs and his back legs are trying to fucking disembowel it and he’s on the hardwood floor, propelling himself along by sheer force of wriggling and ecstasy. He growls and tears into the banana but the fabric just won’t give.

He isn’t sure how long the high lasts. Maybe half an hour.

When he comes back down, he’s a little weirded out.

And Karen seems to be posting videos to her Instagram.

He’s never going to live this down.

* * *

A week after he’s been collared and micro-chipped, there’s a knock at Karen’s door.

It’s late; Karen is dressed in pajamas and Frank is beside her on the couch, half-asleep. The sound of the knocking has him on edge and he fluffs up at once, a growl rumbling in his chest.

Karen unfolds her legs. He’s glad to see she doesn’t just rush to the door and open it; rather, she takes the gun from her purse, stands out of the way of the door and says, “Who is it?”

“Madani,” comes the voice from outside.

Frank stops growling at once. Madani? What’s she doing here? He thought she was off working at the CIA.

Karen puts her gun back, then unlocks the door. Sure enough, Dinah Madani stands there. She’s dressed in slacks and a crisp shirt, and her hair is longer than Frank has ever seen it. She nods a greeting to Karen. “Can I come in?”

“Sure.” Karen steps aside and Madani walks in. She sees Frank and says, “Oh.”

“New cat,” Karen says. “But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about that.” There’s a certain amount of tension in her stance.

Madani lets out a deep breath. “I—I don’t know any way to say this, so I’ll just say it. Have you seen Frank Castle?”

Karen goes still. “Why?”

“Because the cops found evidence that something happened to him,” says Madani quietly. “They found his clothes, his weapons. And—and this.”

She holds out the folded-over picture of Maria and the kids.

Frank yearns to reach for it. But he can’t. Karen takes it, smooths her fingers across the folds.

“A friend in the force gave me a call. They think the mafia caught up to him,” Madani says. “The building… let’s just say it’s a popular spot for people to vanish.”

Karen gazes down at the picture like it’s all important. She holds it between her fingers. Her hands are steady, even if her breathing isn’t. “There was blood on the floor,” says Madani. “We checked it against his file—and yes, it’s his blood. Either he was badly hurt and decided to lay low, or else…” She exhales. “I thought he might have come here.”

Karen makes a slight noise that could be a laugh or a derisive breath. “No. No, he wouldn’t come to me. He made that clear.” She raises her gaze to Madani. Her expression is hard and clear. “Do you think something’s happened to him?”

Madani seems to soften a little. “I think the violence he soaked himself in—it finally caught up with him. If there’s anything I know about Frank, it’s that he wouldn’t just leave these things behind.”

Karen’s fingers tighten on the picture. “No. No, he wouldn’t.” She hesitates. “Thanks. For telling me.”

Madani looks at Karen with equal parts understanding and empathy. “You take care.”

When Madani has gone, Karen goes to pick up her phone. She dials a number, then waits. Frank’s cat-like hearing can make out the sound of Curt’s voicemail message. “Hi, Mr. Hoyle,” says Karen. “It’s Karen Page—we talked briefly for the article I wrote on the city bombings. I’m sorry to bother you but… I’m trying to find a mutual friend of ours. I think he may be in trouble.” She hesitates, then gives her phone number and hangs up.

She leans against the counter, and for a few moments she looks utterly gutted.

Frank walks toward her. _I’m right here_ , he tries to say. _I’m fine._

It comes out as a series of rusty meows. Karen looks down at him, presses her thumb to the corner of one eye for a few seconds, then reaches for him. She picks him up, cuddles him. “I know, I know,” she murmurs into his fur. “Dinner time.”

 _I’m here_ , he tries to say again. _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._

He wishes he could make her understand.

* * *

She talks to Curtis on the phone the next morning. She does so in her bedroom, so Frank can only hear fragments of the conversation. There’s some kind of construction nearby and Frank’s cat hearing can’t tune out the sound of breaking concrete and men shouting at one another. He stands outside of Karen’s closed bedroom door and closes his eyes.

“—Going to ask around,” she says. “Madani dropped a few hints about which building, but she wouldn’t tell me.” A pause. “I’m not going unarmed. I’ll be fine.” Another pause. “I don’t know how to get in touch with Lieberman. Okay—okay, thank you.”

Then she pushes open the door and nearly trips over Frank. She skids over him, grabbing the wall. “Oh, shit. Sorry, Rusty.”

Frank presses himself to the floor, ears flattened. Then he rises and tries to say, _Over my dead body are you going to investigate a mafia building alone._

“Mrowrowrowmewow,” is all that comes out.

“Are you bored?” She goes to the drawer where she keeps the cat toys. “I’m not feeding you again until dinner. You’re going to get fat.”

_It’s not safe._

“Meowrowrow.”

She tosses a ball across the floor and his every instinct screams to chase it. To give into the thrill of the hunt, the kill. But he stares at Karen, tail swishing in agitation at the thought of her going into danger without him. And because of him.

“See you later, Rusty,” she says distractedly. She picks up her purse and closes the front door behind her before he can follow.

* * *

He waits.

It’s an eternity. An eternity of impatient, adrenaline-riddled waiting. Frank paces the length of the apartment, back and forth, because he can’t bear to sit still. She’s out there, probably chasing down mafia leads, trying to find him. He hates this. He hates that he’s the reason she’s endangered herself, that she’s still willing to do so even after he tried his best to make her… well, not hate him. Never hate him. But he wanted to disentangle her from the fucking nightmare that is his life. That’s why he told her to leave at the hospital, why he lied.

Because he did lie.

He wanted everything she offered. But taking it—it was too dangerous. With Billy and Amy and that preacher all running around, he couldn’t let Karen walk back into his life. He just couldn’t. He doesn’t regret keeping her out of it.

But he does regret not contacting her afterward. He should have let her know, told her gently that she deserves better.

And now he’s a fucking cat and she’s out there, in the city, trying to hunt him down.

If anything does happen to her—

He can’t even think about it.

He can’t.

More time passes and he has the inexplicable urge to claw something. Like maybe the couch leg. Or a table. He resists the impulse, but it’s a near thing.

Evening falls. His stomach growls; there’s no food left in his bowl. Karen is usually back before dark to feed him. That she hasn’t returned… it worries him more than he’s able to say. Anxiety hardens into anger. She shouldn’t have gone looking for him alone; she should have known better.

Evening bleeds into true night, and she still doesn’t return. Midnight comes and goes.

And all at once, Frank’s anger turns into something else.

_Karen, please._

Frank Castle has begged for very few things in his life, he’d do it now. If he knew the right words, the right name to invoke. If he knew how to change things, he would.

_Come back._

He finds himself making all kinds of bargains with the universe. If she comes back, he’ll talk to her. Really talk to her. He’ll tell her everything she wants to know. He’ll fix things with Curtis. He’ll find a way to send more money too Amy. He’ll visit the Lieberman’s. He’ll try to be more than the Punisher. He isn’t all that sure he’ll succeed, but he’ll sure as hell try.

Because he’s been the Punisher for years now, and while he doesn’t regret most of it, he’s tired. And lonely. And if anything happens to Karen because he wouldn’t talk to her—

There’s a sound at the door. A key being slid into a lock.

Frank’s pulse kicks into overdrive. He scurries out from under the couch, then skids to a halt before the door. Karen pushes it open. Frank lifts his nose into the air, sniffing. No blood. But there is the distinct scent of smoke and booze on her jacket. She hangs it up by the door and looks blearily down at Frank. “Hey, Rusty,” she says softly. “Sorry I got back late.”

She goes to put a scoop of food in his bowl, but he couldn’t care less. He follows her into the bedroom, keeping near her ankles. She shucks off her jacket and shoes, then sits on the bed.

She starts crying.

Shit.

He has to do something. He can’t let this just go on. He’s alive and she has to know. He sits up, pawing gently at her cheek. _It’s me, it’s me._

He half-expects her to tell him to shoo, but instead she just puts her arms around him. She holds him and cries, and he sits there and feels like the bastard he is—because she should never have had to cry like this over him. He’s not worth it.

He butts his head against her fingers. She holds him a little tighter.

“Sorry about this,” she murmurs against his long fur. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long, but after—I saw the blood. I snuck in and I saw where he must have…” She trails off. “He was stubborn,” she says. “And gruff and impossible. But he was also—perceptive and insightful and he loved. He loved his family and his friends. He loved them so much, and I just—I just wanted more for him.” A shudder rolls through her. “And I… loved him. But it didn’t matter.”

 _It didn’t matter._ What she means is, _she_ didn’t matter. He wants to tell her that’s bullshit. She’s the one of the only things that matters. But he’s never told her that.

Maybe she should have just cut his balls off and been done with it. He has more than earned it. He wishes she would do something to vent her frustration.

Instead, she lets him sleep on her bed.

She drifts off with her arms around him, still dressed in her skirt and blouse. He purrs until he’s sure she’s asleep.

It’s the least he can do.

She loves him.

_She loves him._

He knew, on some gut level. The way she pleaded with him the hospital—she wouldn’t have come to sit beside him, to watch over him, if she hadn’t cared. But he never let himself think that word.

Now, it brings everything into sharp focus.

He knows what it feels like to fall and fall hard. He’s done it before, with Maria. With Karen, it crept up on him. He only realized how much he cared when he faced the prospect of losing her, and then it was too much. He ran, because he couldn’t do it again. He couldn’t give himself over to that kind of vulnerability a second time.

Maybe that made him a coward. It probably did.

This—this is the life he could have had.

Living with her, being with her. Watching the day to day activities of her life. Sleeping beside her, eating with her, sharing her life. He could have had this, but he turned her down flat. And the thought makes him both exhausted and so very lonely.

Karen murmurs softly in her sleep and he presses more tightly against her side.

If he ever gets the chance to talk with her again, he’s going to tell her. He’ll stop being the fucking asshole who made her cry over his supposed death, who left her alone in a hospital with only the sound of a fire alarm to remember him by. He’ll tell her that she’s good, that she matters, and—

And fuck it.

He’ll tell her everything. Lay it all out at her feet and let her decide if she wants this or not.

If only he gets the chance.

* * *

Time passes.

It’s simultaneously the best and worst time that Frank has had in a while. He’s safe and warm and well fed and occasionally high on catnip. Karen lets him sleep with her in the bed and he watches her—in a not-creepy way—in the wan light of morning. He’ll just observe the rise and fall of her chest, the stillness in her face. He likes sleeping beside her; there’s a peace to it.

But, in the midst of it all, he has to watch Karen mourn him.

He hates that she’s hurting because of him. She clearly hasn’t given up all hope, because she gets in touch with a few contacts of hers. She puts out word she’s looking for Frank. But with every passing day, he watches her energy dwindle. Her grief is the kind that gives way to numbness, he can tell. She pours a little more wine for herself or tries to lose herself in work. In those moments, Frank will try to crawl into her lap and purr until she’s smiling down at him. “Hey, Rusty,” she murmurs, kissing the top of his head.

And then—then someone tries to hurt her.

It’s three in the morning.

Frank is asleep in her bed, her arm around him, when he hears the sound of breaking glass. He’s awake in an instant, his whiskers pointed forward. He slips out from under Karen’s arm and through the cracked bedroom door.

Someone is breaking in. They’ve cracked the window, and he sees gloved fingers twisting at the lock. Someone’s trying to get into Karen’s place.

Frank moves with the grace of a predator, light and sure in the dark. And he watches as the window swings open and someone pushes inside.

He’s some middle-aged white guy, who looks like he frequents a biker bar or gym all too frequently. Frank goes over the odds in his head.

At six foot, five inches and probably about two hundred and ten pounds: the intruder.

And at ten inches and thirteen pounds: Frank Castle.

It’s a hilariously unfair fight. So Frank won’t fight fair. He leaps atop the couch and jumps for the man’s eyes, claws out.

He sinks those claws into the intruder’s face, raking open deep cuts. Frank tries to bite for his throat, going for the jugular. The man lets out a strangled, startled noise. Frank bites him hard, sinking his teeth into the man’s shoulder.

Then the intruder slams his forearm into Frank, and the cat goes flying. He hits the floor hard, knocking the breath from his tiny lungs. Frank lurches, trying to get back to his feet. He has to stop this. He doesn’t care if he’s a cat. He doesn’t care if he’s doing to die and no one will ever even know it was him. He doesn’t care if he’s probably going to end up buried in a shoebox with the name ‘Rusty’ on his collar.

He’s not letting this asshole touch Karen. Not while he’s still alive.

“Hands in the air, now.” Karen’s voice is a snarl.

The man looks at Karen, sees the gun in her hands. She’s got a steady grip and her face is a pale, hard mask of utter fury.

“Hands in the air,” Karen repeats. “And pray that you didn’t just kill my cat or I’m going to put a bullet in your knee.”

Frank stumbles toward her, unsteady. _I’m okay_ , he wants to say, but it comes out as a soft mewl.

“Listen, lady,” says the man. “You’re not gonna—”

Then his eyes widen. His jaw slackens. And he slumps forward onto the floor, utterly dead to the world.

Daredevil stands behind him, a baton still raised. He steps into the apartment. “Hey, Karen.”

Karen lets out a breath, then she puts her gun down and hastily squats down beside Frank. “Rusty?” Her hands fall gently on his sides, running over him. His ribs are sore, but he’s otherwise fine. Karen picks him up, tucking his head beneath her chin. “You stupid, brave cat.” She kisses his cheek, scrubbing her fingers into the long fur around his neck. Frank’s heartbeat won’t settle; he’s far too keyed up. But he lets her hold him, because she seems to need it.

“What was this?” says Karen, still breathless.

Murdock nods at the unconscious man. “There’s been a string of break-ins in your neighborhood. I think we just found the culprit.”

Frank looks down at the intruder and growls softly. Murdock tilts his head, hearing the growl. “Is that your cat?”

“Yeah, this is Rusty,” says Karen.

Murdock walks around the intruder’s still form. “I still can’t believe you got a cat,” he says. “You said you were a dog person.”

“Yeah.” She carefully sets Frank on the couch, stroking his back. “Well, he kind of adopted me.” She exhales shakily. “How’d you know about the robberies?”

There’s a moment of hesitation, and Frank feels a surge of pride. That’s his girl—sharper than anyone.

No, no. She’s not his. Just like he’s not hers.

Which would probably be more convincing if he weren’t wearing a collar with her phone number on it.

“You were watching my place again, weren’t you?” says Karen. “For… how many days?”

Murdock, to his credit, looks a little shameful. “About a week.”

Resolve hardens Karen’s face. “You can’t just watch my place when you feel like it. That’s not how this is going to work. If—if you really want to be friends again—”

Murdock steps forward. “That’s all I want, Karen. I want things like they were.”

“They’re never going to be like that again.” There’s a low note of pain in her voice, so suppressed that Frank is sure he’s the only one to recognize it. But he knows her—and he knows how her syllables go tight when she’s disappointed in someone. “It can’t.” She carefully sets Frank down, and he stands beside her leg. It’s not much back-up, but it’s something.

Murdock rocks back a little. Even with a mask covering half his face, there’s no disguising the tightness. “Then what do we do?”

“We go forward,” Karen says simply. “You have to—you have to trust me and Foggy to take care of ourselves. We did an all right job when you were… not here. You can’t spend every night of the week hanging out on our rooftops, just in case something happens.”

“I know,” Matt says quietly. “It’s just… I got you both back. And I couldn’t bear it if anything happened. Not when I could have helped.”

“But you have to trust us,” Karen says. Her fingers touch the gun. “We’ve got this.”

“Yeah, I know you do.” Murdock nods. “You sure you don’t want to come work for us again?”

Karen smiles. “Yeah, Matt. I’m just… I’m better on my own.”

Again, a soft note of pain—but this time, Frank knows it’s directed at Karen herself.

“I’ll see you on Wednesday at Josie’s,” Murdock says. “You’ve got to beat Foggy at pool again. Marci’s coming.”

Karen nods. And then Murdock drags the would-be robber out of the apartment, and out on the fire escape. Frank listens to them go until he can’t hear anything but the distant traffic and the sound of Karen’s breaths. As soon as she’s sure Murdock is gone, her shoulders slump. She laces her fingers and places them behind her head, so that she’s bending over her own lap. It’s a defeated little posture, a tight one. Defensive.

Frank leaps up onto the couch’s arm. He presses his head against her elbow and chirrups at her.

Karen’s arm falls and she peers at him. Her eyes are slightly damp. “Hey, Rusty.” She strokes the ruff of fur along his chest and neck. “You did good tonight.”

He leans into the touch and nearly falls off the couch. Some cat he makes.

She lets out a shaky laugh and picks him up, folding him to her chest. He lets her, purring softly as she locks the window then carries him into the bedroom.

_We’re all just fighting not to be alone._

He remembers her words so many months ago. And now—

_I’m better off on my own._

It sounds as though she’s given up a little on that fight—and fuck, that hurts. He wonders if he’s the reason, or if there’s something else.

 _I’m here,_ he wants to say. _I’m right here._

* * *

He’s been her cat for about three months when another wizard finds them.

It’s a Wednesday, and Karen is unpacking her take-out dinner while Frank eats some canned chicken.

There’s a knock on the door. Karen asks who it is, and then she frowns when he says, “Doctor Strange.”

“Who?” says Karen, sounding more than a little suspicious. Frank puffs himself up, a growl rumbling in his chest.

And then the man simply steps through the door and into the apartment like it doesn’t exist. “Sorry, sorry,” says the man. He’s got dark hair and a goatee and a fucking cape. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But I’ve been tracking down—well, one of our order went rogue a few months back. Caused a fair bit of damage. I’ve been undoing some of his spells and—one of them led me here.” Doctor Strange utters this all as if his words are utterly normal and sane.

Karen gapes at him. As if she’s unsure whether to run or pick up a knife from the drawer. Frank’s fur is all puffed out, and he lets out a low growl.

Strange looks at him, and then he looks relieved. “Oh, there we go.” He steps closer.

“What the hell,” Karen snarls. “Get away from my cat—”

Strange raises a hand, makes a circling gesture.

And then Frank is a person again.

A very naked person. Standing in a kitchen. Beside a half-empty food bowl.

“Holy shit,” breathes Karen.

Strange makes a little gesture, and a towel appears out of nowhere. Frank grabs it, wrapping it around his waist. His fingers feel uncoordinated, clumsy. He’s not used to having hands anymore.

“All right,” says Strange. “I’ll be off now.” And then he walks back through the solid door and out of sight.

Karen looks from the door to Frank, then back to the door.

“What,” she says faintly. “The. Fuck.”

Frank looks at her. He tries to think of something to say and utterly fails. All of those months waiting to talk to her, and he cannot form a single sentence. “Hey,” he finally manages.

Karen looks so pale that he steps closer. Her gaze flickers over him and then she leans against the counter, her back heaving with every breath. “Jesus,” she says, pressing her bare palms to the countertop like she needs the support. “Were you—I mean, I—”

“Yeah,” says Frank. Even if she doesn’t get out the whole sentence, he gets it. “Whole thing is fucked up. I’ll tell you everything.”

“You better,” she says, looking up. Then she looks down again. “But first—let me find you something to wear besides a collar.”

* * *

He ends up in sweatpants and a too-tight shirt, but it’s better than nothing. And then Frank tells her all of it—the mafia-hired wizard, finding himself with four legs, and then coming here.

“All this time,” says Karen faintly. They’re sitting on her couch, and Frank had to resist the urge to crawl into her lap because it’s a fucking habit now. He hopes he’ll get over that impulse fast. “You were—Rusty. This whole time.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Oh god,” she says. “I—I had you microchipped.”

“Yeah,” he says again.

“Is it still in there?” she says.

“You want to take me to the vet and find out?”

She lets out a startled laugh, then claps her hand to her mouth. She looks torn between shock, amusement, and horror.

“Didn’t mean to just spring this on you,” he says. “I tried to figure out a way to tell you.”

He can see her thinking through it, sorting through memories. “The coffee,” she says, laughing into her fingers. “Oh my god, that’s why you kept going into the kitchen. You weren’t hungry, you were trying to get the coffee beans to spell out a message.”

“Couldn’t hold a pen,” he says, and she presses her hands to her eyes.

“I walked around naked in front of you,” she says, a hysterical little laugh in her voice. “I forced you to sleep in my bed every night.”

“I tried not to look,” he says. “And you couldn’t have forced me to do anything. I liked sleeping with you. Never really got the chance to be the little spoon before."

“I almost had you fixed,” she says, pressing her fingers to her eyes.

He laughs, pries her hands down. “Hey, nothing I haven’t earned.”

She gives him a watery little smile, then looks away.

“Shit,” she says. “I—I’m so glad you’re okay. The last few weeks, when I thought you might be dead… all I could think about was the last time we talked and it just… I mean. You know now. How I feel.” Her cheeks flush hot and she looks both frightened and determined.

He doesn’t know how to reply. So he does what he would have as a cat—he puts his hand on her cheek and rests his head against hers. Her breath hitches softly in her throat, then her hand is on his chest.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know. And—and I came here, Karen. When I was scared, when I needed a home. I came here. That—that means something. That you took me in, kept me safe. Gave me some time to think.”

“Think about what?” Her voice is hesitant.

“That you were right,” he says. “About all of it.”

Her throat moves in a silent swallow. And all it takes is the slightest tilt of his head, and he kisses her. Warm and soft, so good and somehow still aching. He lets the touch speak for him. When he pulls back, she’s smiling.

“You want me to stay?” he asks.

She looks at him, like she’s afraid to look at him, because she doesn’t want to hope. “You said no.”

“Ask me again,” he says quietly.

She does.

* * *

In the end, Frank almost wishes he could send that wizard a thank-you note.


End file.
